


Even When Drunk

by out_there



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-15
Updated: 2007-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 09:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Placing two hands on the sides of his chair, John straightened himself.</i></p><p><i>And took a deep breath.</i></p><p><i>Then he said, in his most sober, in-control, trust-me-I'm-an-air-force-employee tone, "Totally sober."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Even When Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://seperis.livejournal.com/profile)[**seperis**](http://seperis.livejournal.com/) for audiencing (and standing firm on the age-old motto: _‘friends don’t let friends drunk-post to LJ’_ ). Thanks to [](http://kmousie.livejournal.com/profile)[**kmousie**](http://kmousie.livejournal.com/) for a well-needed beta.

The best thing about being drunk was the limited vision. After far too many beers, that was the conclusion that John Sheppard had reached. Alcohol was fantastic due to the limited vision.

There was no worrying about Wraith, no worrying about foreign cultures. The biggest worry – and it wasn't really that big, if he was honest – was being able to stand upright long enough to find the door.

In short: it was _fantastic_.

Rodney, sitting beside him and talking on and on and on – didn't seem to agree.

He kept saying useless, obvious things like, "You're drunk, Colonel" and "Are you sure you can get back to your quarters?"

Annoying. That’s what McKay was. Annoying.

Then he started saying things like, "Should you be drinking that?" and "Don't you think you've had enough to drink?" and John upgraded his assessment to _very_ annoying.

"I'm fine, Rodney," he said, trying very, very hard to stay upright on the chair.

"Uh-huh?" Rodney asked, with this cute little twist of his mouth. "You're fine? Totally sober? Not about to fall off your chair any minute now?"

Placing two hands on the sides of his chair, John straightened himself.

And took a deep breath.

Then he said, in his most sober, in-control, trust-me-I'm-an-air-force-employee tone, "Totally sober."

He barely slurred.

And he didn't fall off his chair.

Rodney buried his face in his hands. "You’re not sober. You’re not anywhere approaching sober. You do remember that we're supposed to leave towards MRS-189 in under six hours, right?"

"I will be totally sober by the time we have to fly there," John said, managing – almost – not to over-balance on his chair. The bit that his didn't manage left him stumbling to his feet and wondering why the mess hall was floating from side to side, unable to stay still. "Totally sober."

"Excuse me if I have trouble believing that from the mouth of an intoxicated idiot."

"I'm not an idiot!"

"But you're intoxicated," Rodney replied, rolling his eyes and sneering like John was... well, like John was one of the new Physics recruits who didn't believe in the existence of Stargates.

"I'm not!"

"You are," Rodney said, and John tried very, very hard to stay upright.

If you didn't count the way he was leaning on the table for support, he totally succeeded.

"Okay," John said, pulling his hand back from the table and swaying only a *little* bit. Okay. Maybe a lot. "I’ve had a couple drinks."

"Lorne should fly us." Rodney did that almost-pouting thing that he did and John had to remind himself that it was a very, very bad idea to kiss him when he did that.

It was a very bad idea for reasons John couldn't quite remember at the moment.

He leaned forward, but Rodney ducked back in a way that was highly unfair. "Why should Lorne fly you? I'm a much, much–" John had to pause when he nearly overbalanced, and then, once he'd uprighted himself, continued, "much better pilot than Lorne is."

Rodney raised an eyebrow.

"He's not a bad guy, just a bad pilot," John explained. "I mean, he's a great guy, _great_ guy. But I'm way better at the cool piloting stuff than him."

"Really?" Rodney asked.

For a moment, John was distracted looking for his glass of beer, and then he noticed it. Sitting beside his right hand. "Really, Rodney. If you want to stay alive, I'm totally the better bet."

"Even when drunk?"

"I'm only a little drunk." He raised his hand to show how little drunk he was, but keeping his fingers apart was a lot harder than it looked. "Okay. Maybe I'm more than a little drunk."

"You're wasted, Colonel," Rodney said, grinning.

If he was going to grin like that, John totally had an excuse to kiss him.

So he did, except for the way that Rodney stepped back and avoided it.

"Rodney!"

"You're drunk," Rodney said, as John took a moment to stare at his feet. His feet were tiny, John decided, far too small for an Air Force Major, let alone an Air Force Colonel.

"Maybe," John allowed.

"This is a bad idea."

"No. No, no, no, no." John took a deep breath, and then wondered when the room had started to spin and turn like a teeny-bopper trying to do the twist. "I'm drunk, but you're very kissable."

"Only because you're drunk."

"No," John said, grinning because Rodney was flushed, red-cheeked, even though he'd kept to the non-alcoholic apple-like juice all night. "You're kissable when I'm sober, too."

"Huh," Rodney said and then stared at his glass, at the table top, at the wall, at anywhere except John.

John laughed. "Totally kissable."

"You're drunk."

"I'm only saying it because I'm drunk." John realised he was leaning forward, almost collapsed upon the table, and righted himself. "Doesn't make it not true.”

"Well, excuse me if I have trouble–"

"Uh, uh, uh, ah!" John said, waving a hand in front of Rodney. "This is not up for debate. You are very, very, very kissable."

"I'm not denying–"

"Yes, you are!" John interrupted. "You're denying it. And you are. And I would like to."

Rodney looked confused. "You'd like to what?"

John waved a hand in front of his face. For a moment, he got distracted watching his hand. Then he remembered the conversation. "I want to kiss you."

"You're drunk," Rodney said again.

"Yeah," John said, leaning forward on his elbows, leaning his head on his arms, and closing his eyes for just a minute. "But it doesn't mean I don't want to kiss you. Doesn't mean I don't think about it everytime you start talking about some impossible-to-understand scientific mumbo-jumbo."

Rodney blinked, a bit like a goldfish. For a moment, John thought about telling him about Sparky, the goldfish he'd had when he was seven. That his father had flushed down the toilet when he was eight.

"You're kind of cute. Especially when you get all--" John waved his hand wildly, "--excited about science. It's adorable, even though it shouldn't be. It is."

Again, Rodney stared at him. Then he frowned and said, "You're drunk."

"And you're an astro-physii...physciiisicististist. But I don’t hold that against you."

Rodney looked like he was about to say something else, so John took the conversation into his own hands. Or, more precisely, he took Rodney’s face into his hands, and kissed him. In the middle of the Mess. In the middle of Saint Patrick's Day. In the middle of being very drunk and Rodney being very, very... _Rodney_. He leaned across and kissed him.

And managed to find his mouth on the second try.

And though he was drunk, yes, and a little sloppy -- sad to say, but true -- and very earnest, Rodney still kissed him back.

Even if Rodney did pull back and say, "Did I mention you're very drunk?"  



End file.
